Riding the Wings of Melody
by VyingQuill
Summary: The death of someone Harry truly cares for drives him to retreat into the Muggle world, leaving behind a chaotic wizarding community in desperate need of him. Two years later, Sirius spots him in Muggle London, wielding a different sort of magic...
1. Opening Piece: Moonlight

RIDING THE WINGS OF MELODY 

**Author:** VyingQuill

**Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended

**A/N: **Okay, okay, don't kill me for starting a new fic when Vengeance So Sweet is still unfinished! This plot bunny just popped into my head, and it just kinda expanded from there. I don't know if I'll get many readers with this fic, as it's a bit unusual. It's not a fifth year fic, or an any-year fic. It's more like the summers after fourth and fifth year, than it starts becoming one of those 'Harry leaves the magical world to live in the Muggle one', but it's different, trust me. After that, seventh year comes into play. 

The first part…well, I guess you could call it dull :-). It'll get better soon, though. Please review with any suggestions, criticism, or comments. 

_"The first movement of the Moonlight Sonata _

_is widely considered to be reminiscent of _

_moonlight shining upon a lake—_

_plaintive, calm, and lovely; _

_and if that is the case, the third would be _

_considered to be like waves being whipped_

_up on frenzied waters—anxious, angry, _

_and violent"_

_Ludwig Rellstab_

Opening Piece: Moonlight Sonata 

Harry had always been of the belief that wherever he turned, Destiny would always be nipping at his heels, keeping him on the treacherous, pothole-filled path that was his life. 

After emerging from the experience, he knew with ridiculous conviction that She would, to amuse herself and pass the idle centuries that made up eternity, take to manipulating lives and twisting one to collide with another that wasn't fated to meet the latter otherwise. He knew that She took immense pleasure in creating things that mortals called _coincidence_, and using these _coincidences_ to create an entirely different path for the mortals involved, until each coincidence met with the next to form a fragile web of acquaintances and sequenced events that made up a secondary destiny that could be followed instead of the preset first. 

And the first wholly coincidental event was set into motion the minute he took his first step into the Muggle world after saying good-bye to Ron and Hermione, promising repeatedly that he would send letters frequently. 

His large, cumbersome trunk, with varnish scraped off the bottom due to the numerous times he had dragged it along the concrete ground, much like he was doing now, coupled with Hedwig's bulky cage, made it a difficult journey from the Platform to the loading zone where Vernon usually met to pick him up.

By some miracle, he made it to the car, only to be faced with a second task; lifting his trunk into the compartment. His Uncle offered no help as he stood off to the side, puffing at his pipe and blowing smoke rings at the occasional passerby who dared pause to glance curiously at Harry's snowy owl.

Sweating profusely, Harry gave the trunk a final heave, watching, satisfied, as it slid inside the car. 

Vernon, pipe dangling crookedly from the corner of his mouth, unlocked the doors and plunked himself heavily into the drivers seat. Before Harry could settle himself into the passengers seat and close the door, Vernon took off, flooring the gas pedal and paying no heed to Harry's alarmed yelp. 

Quite fortunately, he pulled his flailing appendages inside before another car whizzed by, passing through the exact spot where his legs had been dangling only seconds ago. 

The rest of the trip back to number four, Privet Drive, was uneventful. Vernon grunted every two seconds, choked on bits of stray tobacco every two minutes, and made sharp, veering turns every twenty minutes that would have sent Harry flying painfully into the windshield had he not taken to clamping his hands around the armrests on either side of him. 

Once Vernon pulled into the driveway, Harry relaxed his death-hold on the armrests (of which the soft plush was now marred with finger indents). 

"Get that trunk and that—" Vernon shot a distasteful look at Hedwig—"nuisance of a bird into the broom cupboard. They're both getting locked up this summer; I won't have you going about with your hocus-pocus and setting your owl loose on anything with two legs and hair." 

Harry opened his mouth to protest. "I _need_ my schoolbooks." He smiled slyly before continuing. "And my godfather wouldn't be too pleased if he found out you locked my owl away in some cupboard." 

"That damn godfather of yours, eh? I'm beginning to think that this whole _convicted murderer_ story is nothing but a _fib_. Maybe you should invite him over so we catch a glimpse of this famous _godfather_?" Vernon sneered nastily, looming threateningly over his small nephew. "That's what I thought, boy. No more of that _nonsense_." 

He violently wrenched Harry's trunk from the compartment, snatched Hedwig from Harry's arms, and stormed up the steps to the front door.

*****

The next few days, Harry admitted, were rather uneventful and dull. He went about tidying the house and weeding gardens, like he had done every summer, but was slightly disgruntled to find that the Dursleys animosity towards him had not been quashed with time, but had only heightened while he had been away. 

Dudley, with a newfound girlfriend, Penny, that bore remarkable semblance to Petunia in both mannerisms and physical attributes—or lack thereof—, made a daily show of lifting Harry up by his collar and cuffing him sharply across the neck, just to show his friends and Penny that he could.

Petunia made no effort to keep the house clean, but instead slopped around the kitchen cooking dinner, dropping bits of ground beef and cheese casserole on the linoleum tiles and claiming to have 'accidentally' stepped on the chunks when Harry, having been ordered to clean the yellowish-brown smears adorning the floor, asked her about them. 

Instead of paying the grocery boy to drop by and deliver their things, Vernon now insisted that Harry do it, free of charge, as a favor to their hospitality. 

Thus, Harry was forced to ride a rickety bicycle to the market a quarter of an hour away, pick up the grocery items, and ride back while balancing the load in a rusty basket attached to the handlebars—and all this done in the dry heat of summer while wearing Dudley's baggy black jeans, the hems of which were constantly getting caught in the gears. 

Whenever a spare hour where he had no chores or errands to run occurred, he would sit at his desk, moping dejectedly and thinking back to the happenings of his fourth year at Hogwarts. 

It was during one such hour that a tawny owl, bearing the Hogwarts crest and a warped yellow envelope that looked as if it had undergone several storms along the way, glided to a rest on the protruding windowsill of the spare room, rapping curtly at the closed window to catch Harry's attention. 

Downstairs, in the broom closet, Hedwig screeched. 

Harry had already been on several rescue missions for her sake, but the lock over the broom cupboard adamantly refused to budge. An identical unyielding lock guarded his books, which were locked in a separate closet. 

Each day around noon, when Hedwig would grow particularly rowdy from hunger, the Dursleys would shove a sliver of luncheon meat and bits of old turnips under the door, along with a shallow dish of brackish water. Harry had seriously contemplated using magic to unlock the door, but would stop each time when he remembered that doing so would result in immediate expulsion, thus sentencing both himself and his owl to a life of Dursley-induced misery. Thoughts like these would stop him dead in his tracks and make him reconsider.

Ignoring as best as he could Hedwig's shriek of boredom, he let the other owl in and untied the letter from around its leg. Without waiting for a return message the animal hooted its self-approval at a job well done, and flew back out into the mild summer breezes. 

Harry broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter. It was far too early for the yearly start-of-term letter, so what could it be? 

_Harry,_

_I am obligated to inform you that we, and in this, I mean myself, Remus, Snuffles, and the Hogwarts staff, have decided it best to reinforce the wards around your summer dwelling, in light of recent events. One such reinforcement that has recently been activated is the Barrier. It prevents the use of any kind of magic inside, and only inside, number four Privet Drive. We feel that, should any Death Eaters wander across your path, this would be for the best. The temporary suspension of magic includes your own as well as that of intruders. Keep in touch with your friends and your Godfather._

_Wishes for the best,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

Harry dropped the letter into the space under the loose floorboard. His hopes of using magic to subdue the lock if circumstances insisted were dashed. 

Sighing, he resumed his habitual pastime of wallowing in guilt. 

****

At half past four, Harry dug the peeling old bicycle out from under a mass of dirty rugs, under strict orders from Petunia to be back before she started dinner. A list of vegetables he was to come back with were tucked into the folds of Dudley's old puce green flannel shirt, which hung about him in great, overwhelming folds of excess fabric. In Harry's opinion, which the Dursleys really didn't give a second thought to, he looked like a runaway stalk of celery.

An hour later, Harry exited the sliding glass doors of the supermarket and, dropping a brown bag exhaustedly into the dingy basket, clambered unsteadily onto the bike seat. 

A wet splotch of something fell onto his nose. 

Rain. 

Harry surveyed the sky uneasily. Angry gray storm clouds were already swallowing up whatever patches of blue the sky retained, and the stray drops of wetness became more and more frequent as he pedaled across the parking lot. 

Using one hand to guide the bicycle and the other to hold his shirt in place, Harry increased his pace, working himself into a panicked stupor as he lunged relentlessly through the curtain of rain. 

Much to his dismay, a crack of lightning, followed by rolling peals of thunder, resounded across the slate gray background. The steady pitter-patter of rain became a mismatched, chaotic tirade of droplets slamming themselves against pavement. Harry was acutely aware of the fact that his bicycle was composed of _metal_, however rusty and decayed, making him a very able lightning rod. As it was, he supposed himself a very able ice box, the combined effect of freezing water and rushing wind causing his fingers to turn a vibrant shade of purple that clashed horribly with the decrepit brown handlebars. 

Many of the small businesses that lined the street had already closed for the night ("Why in the bloody heck would they shut down so early?" Harry thought furiously), and the streetlamps had just recently flared to life. The bicycle skidded precariously as he rounded a corner, wobbling unsteadily on half-deflated rubber wheels. 

"Damn!" Harry yelped, feeling himself being launched straight into a patch of foliage as the front wheel hit a wide crack in the sidewalk. Oranges and rounded bottles of soymilk rolled haphazardly after him, and packages of frozen drumsticks lay forlornly next to the fallen bicycle. "Damn and damn_ation_!"

Overcome with a fit of rage, he scrambled to the bike and dealt it a good, hard kick. "Unreliable—filthy—trash—Dursleys—" Each venomous word was punctuated with a kick or two, until Harry's big toe began throbbing. Breathing heavily, he fell to the pavement, cold and bone-weary and, once the adrenaline began filtering out of his system, extremely drained. 

Feeling exceedingly deadened inside, he decided to stay put, swirling his finger through a puddle of water and humming insanely to himself. Sporadically, a car would speed by, dousing Harry with a fresh wave of chilling rainwater, but he didn't care; no one cared for him, so why should he care for himself? Harry Potter was nothing, just a fancy in a foolish child's imagination; he had no real talent, he was worthless, and he was, most of all, loved about as much as yesterdays garbage. 

Harry extracted his finger from the puddle and stared listlessly as the ripples settled into a layer of smooth satin. The reflection of a tiny brightly lit shop beamed up at him. 

_A shop_? Harry, slowly, as if afraid to tear his gaze away from the picturesque reflection, turned, fixing his eyes blearily upon a solid replica of the shop. So it hadn't been some figment of his imagination! 

Excitedly, he pulled himself to his feet and made his way up to the door. A small 'We are OPEN' sign hung crookedly at the frame, the most welcoming thing Harry had seen that day. 

Vague scents that put Harry in mind of old gingerbread and thyme lingered about the warm air as he stepped inside. The place was dimly lit; it took a while for Harry to adjust to the change in lighting. Meanwhile, he busied himself with wringing water from his sodden clothing. A long, crimson gash ran down the side of one leg, his prize for being stupid enough to turn wet corners at unrelenting speed. 

Once he looked up, however, all thoughts of bloody legs and band-aids fled his mind. 

It was a piano shop. 

Soft light from a blazing hearth bathed the instruments with an ethereal wash of glowing yellow-orange. The pianos were old-fashioned—all delicate, curving legs, well-polished wooden frames, and pristine white keys peeking out from under a thin protective covering of velvet. Their lids were honey-colored banners of shining wood extended proudly towards the ceiling, and row after row, they were lined accordingly from largest to smallest, each with benches tucked underneath its legs and music books piled next to its brass pedals. 

And Harry felt it—the slight twinge in his chest, the slight thrumming that had sprung to life within himself, and the rush of majesty and peace and a force somewhere outside of his own body that directed him to the nearest piano. 

He lowered himself haltingly onto the bench, fingers moving of their own accord towards the smooth ivory keys. Flickering shadows cast by the hearth danced across his face, reflecting the fire and passion that had kindled in his shining emerald eyes. 

His fingers arched naturally over the keys, unmoving. He closed his eyes and remembered. 

He remembered and remembered, calling up the image of his nine-year-self, at the only invite dinner that the Dursley's had taken him to. Mr. Karovitch, the director of Grunnings before it had been passed along to Vernon, had specifically invited the entire Dursley family to a small gathering with his wife and himself. Also, for the first time, Harry had found himself dressed in new clothes that fit—a nice pair of ironed black trousers, a stiff button-up shirt, and a plain brown tie; the cheapest things that Petunia had found that still looked somewhat expensive. 

Harry recalled being completely awestruck when they had pulled up in the chauffeured limousine Mr. Karovitch had sent to fetch them. The house was nothing short of a mansion. It was a thing of astounding beauty, with its enormous windows, twinkling innocently at the visitors, and rising turret-topped towers. 

Mr. Karovitch and his wife had shown them first to the parlor, where they chatted over a cup of tea while the finishing touches were being put on dinner. 

Harry had obediently remained quiet, swinging his stubbly legs over the rug and watching with interest the young lady who sat at the grand piano in the center of the parlor. Her long, blue-black hair swished soundlessly across her back as she swayed in time to the sweet melodies that poured forth from the instrument. Harry saw nothing but her—her fingers flying up and down the keys, barely touching one before moving on to the next, her fathomless black eyes as they swept past her fingers to the music in front of her, the peculiar bone-white scar that grazed her jawline…and when he saw the blissful rapture on her face as her nimble fingers danced across ivory, he knew, in a rush of fervent, inexplicable emotion, that he _had_ to play. 

Unbeknownst to him, the Karovitchs had begun herding the Dursleys into the next room, leaving the mystified Harry alone with the piano player. He sidled nervously up to her side, set his chin firmly on a low-hanging mantle next to the piano, and stared; an awestruck, unblinking stare swimming with admiration and traces of jealousy. 

The woman had gradually stopped playing and smiled benignly down at Harry, scar curving upwards with the friendly motion. Wordlessly, she scooted over, leaving a space on the corner of the bench just big enough for Harry to sit on. Bubbling with barely contained enthusiasm, Harry pounced onto the vacant area without a second's worth of hesitation, and it took a good few minutes for him to stop squirming over the slippery bench-top. 

She had carefully—so gently, as if handling a crystal figurine—lifted his thin, bony wrist, placing it lightly above the keys. Harry's small fingers instinctively curved over, and, shot through with a spear of anticipation, he began applying the slightest of forces to the notes, savoring each tentative ringing sound before it died away under his fingertips. 

The young lady made a pleased sound with her throat. She had spread her fingers elegantly over the keys, picking out a small ditty with her right hand. Harry echoed the tune, bringing a pleasantly surprised smile to the pianist's face. Bending over, she applied herself to teaching Harry the notes, the clefs, and, when he had soaked up the basics, she had taught him a few opening bars of _Fur Elise_. 

Then, Vernon had rushed, grabbed him by the collar, and shoved him into the dining room, leaving the strangled notes calling hauntingly after him. 

"Lovely, aren't they?" 

Startled, Harry dropped his hands guiltily to his sides. "I'm sorry, I was just coming in from the storm and—"

His next words died before they could fall from his lips.

The woman, who he assumed to be the shopkeeper, regarded him with concern. "You'll catch pneumonia in those clothes of yours; I'll get you a cup of hot cider and a change of clothing, and then we'll see, shan't we?" 

Still, Harry said nothing. 

The woman blinked nervously, black eyes narrowing as she lifted a pondering finger to the white scar that marred her face. She crossed the room, closing the distance between her and the shivering boy. Blue-black hair shook slightly. 

Harry made his way to an old rocking chair and promptly fainted, one thought emblazoned in his mind—_It was, without a doubt, the young woman who had _

_played at Karovitch's. _

****

Destiny had played her first hand of cards, and the coincidences—the dinner party all those years ago, the hired piano player, and an excursion out during a storm—had melded together.


	2. Rachmaninoff Prelude in C Sharp Minor

RIDING THE WINGS OF MELODY 

**Author:** VyingQuill

**Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.****

**Dedication: **For my piano teacher, who passed away after having taught me for five years. I want him to know that I really miss him, that I'm sorry for not doing my best at times, and that I owe him so much for being patient as I made mistakes, understanding when I got nervous playing for him during lessons and looking past that, and teaching me *everything* I know about the art. I've never meet a greater pianist than him, and never will. Not ever. 

**A/N: It's been a while since an update of any kind, hasn't it? Well, anyways, I was cleaning junk files out of my computer when I found *gasp* a chapter of this fic that I forgot to post (poor, poor Vengeance So Sweet) *winces as readers throw fruit and call out various bits of profanity*. **

**I figured something was better than nothing (I am *so* not lazy! Watch me go!)…and, continuing my trend of post-a-new-update-aphobia, it will most likely be a long HP-writing hiatus…especially with the fifth book coming out. But I suppose after that, I'll churn out stuff quicker, b/c of it being summer and b/c of the new material to work with. But anywhoo, I'd still be ever grateful for reviews (when am I not? I am such a review pig…). **

**OK, enough babble from me, onwards ho! **

**"The beginning is calm,**

**and the middle 'Agitato' is a fantasy of being buried alive,**

**transcribed into notes on paper…**

**Rachmaninoff had bizarre fears of**

**being buried alive…"**

**--_John G. _**

**Piece #2: Rachmaninoff Prelude in C# Minor**

Harry had never thought it possible to be as comfortable as he was now. Seated in front of the blazing hearth, the last lingering remnants of cold evaporating from his fingers, he suddenly felt a surge of gratitude towards the woman.

He now donned a pair of flannel pajamas, which proved to be warm and dry, albeit slightly excessive in length, and was wrapped snugly in a quilt with cotton-stuffing bulging from its ripped seams. He sighed happily, knowing that he should show some courtesy and thank the woman before doing anything else, but was to attached to the peaceable stillness, cut through with periodic cracklings of the fire, to break it. 

So the woman broke it first with—"Tell me, Harry Potter, how you came to be here?" 

"Got caught in the storm," he said, becoming very interested in a loose thread dangling from the quilt. "Fell from my bicycle and saw your place;  was the only one open on this street."

"Quite amusing, really, seeing that I would also be closed by now—except today…_today, _I had naggings to just keep the place open." The woman smiled benignly, her ebony eyes glowing in the dim lighting.  

Harry mulled this over for a moment before shaking off the peculiar sensation crawling up his spine. "I should say thank you then."

"No need."

The two lapsed into another interlude of silence. 

"Your shop is nice," Harry offered weakly, sweeping his hand half-heartedly in the general direction of the pianos. 

"And that is entirely due to pianistic character, related in no way to my handiwork." 

Harry nodded awkwardly, pretending that he understood. "And your name?"

The woman failed to answer, remaining silent for so long that Harry supposed she hadn't heard him. 

"Can I have your na—" 

"My name you will not know, but you may call me…" The woman drifted off, her downcast eyes clouding over with a sadness so acute that it was thickly tangible, like molasses crawling down the side of a jar—"Medea." 

"Medea." 

Saying the name when addressing the woman before him felt wrong, as if it simply didn't fit with her nature; failed to reflect the immense talent she possessed, or the incredible understanding and wisdom in her soft voice that immediately stamped her as one who had seen and experienced much more than her appearance would show. 

As if realizing that she had exposed more than intended, Medea jerked upright, tipping over her mug of cider in the process.

"So," she chirruped, too brightly, "I caught you at the piano's when I stumbled in. Have you played before?"

"Only once." Harry reddened, but plowed on doggedly. "Once, at the Karovitch mansion—and—and—you taught me."

Surprise registered across Medea's face, soon combined with an expression of pleased recognition. "But of course. I recall now; then a mere child, so young and innocent, but bruised, without the naivety I should expect you to have."

Harry blushed further. "My parents died when I was young."

"That I am already aware of, Harry Potter." Medea busied herself with wiping the puddle of cider inching its way towards the table edge. "I sense more potential within you than you could even begin to fathom." 

"Me? The only knack I have is for attracting trouble and death," Harry said, thinking back to Cedric. A leaden weight settled in his chest, as it always did when he thought of such things. He suddenly felt very small and afraid and alone in a gray world where the only certain things were hate and fear. "Since I can't, will you play for me?" 

Without a word, Medea drew out a bench and sat, wielding the piano like a weapon and obliged with a hauntingly despairing piece. 

_It's almost like, _Harry thought_, she's reading my emotions, and twisting them into something much, much more. _

****

He thinks I play for him—a song that bears his name and his troubled soul. I can see it in his face, in the stormy depths of his eyes and in the way I can see them reliving things that had already passed. And he does not yet know that it conforms to my soul, my past, too, but for the fact that while his actions were noble, mine…mine were less than admirable. 

I can see in the way he speaks to me, in the way he picks his way carefully among words so as to not offend, that he raises me on a pedestal, the untouched image he has treasured from his eight-year-old views of me as a shining figure capable of no hurtful things.

And he is wrong.

He has no clue as to the events I'd brought into existence in coalition with my cowardice. How could he know of those, when he does not know my true name, or remains ignorant to the fact that I am not a Muggle? How could he think of me as an untouchable when I am, in fact, covered in far more filth and grime than he could ever be?

*****

Harry caught himself just in time to applaud Medea as she struck the last resonant note. "That was great," he said admiringly, laughing as she did an elaborate curtsy for show. "D'you think maybe one day I could play like that?"

This time, Medea answered immediately. "I _know._"

Harry smiled, peering out the window and noticing that the dark clouds had begun receding from the sky, and that raindrops splattered across the window between lengthier periods of time. "Thank you for putting up with me, then. I'd better be going…the Dursleys—my relatives—will be raving mad when they find out I'm late." 

Shrugging the blanket off his lap and gathering his sopping clothes into a tight bundle, he made for the door, only to find that Medea had been quicker and was blocking his path.

"You will," she said, "drop by tomorrow, say, around one, and pay a lonely acquaintance a visit? Perhaps we'll find ourselves tinkering on the pianos a bit." She winked, and nudged him gently out the door. "After all, who am I to deny visits from a famous young man with a wellspring of potential? Good-bye, Harry Potter, and fare thee well in all your endeavors!" 

The last thought that occurred to Harry as he made his way back to 4 Privet Drive was the brief wondering of how Medea knew his name, when he had never mentioned it. 

****next day***

"H-hi…Ho-how are you d-doing…" Harry wheezed, clutching at his ribs as if he'd just run a marathon. Sweat bunched on his forehead in glistening clusters, breaking apart and trickling down the sides of his face. "S-sorry so lat-late, fa-family issues."

And it wasn't an entire untruth…if twisted and quirked to the side, the events prior to Harry's meeting with Medea _might_ be seen as that…Harry shook his head. No, what had happened couldn't be considered by anyone to be a 'family issue'. 

Medea ignored his greeting, and instead reached a slender, cool hand to his cheek, watching as Harry winced when it grazed the edges of a raw, pink burn, glistening wet with lingering remnants of ointment. 

Harry moved back nervously, turning his face away self-consciously. "Dropped a pepper shaker into the soup." He waved a hand dismissively over the burn, too large to be a result of soup splashes. 

"And this?" Medea kneeled and passed her hand over another patch of peeling skin peeking out from under the cuff of his too-short pants. 

"Erm…burned it on the stove while making said soup?" Harry suggested uncertainly, mentally wondering why the throbbing heat emanating from the burn had ceased when Medea touched it, replaced with a clean, distinct iciness that proved a welcome change from the sharp pains. 

"Please sit; I suppose I should find a roll of gauze in one of the kitchen cabinets—I usually have some in case of small knife slip-ups, always handy…" 

Harry sunk onto one of the piano benches, heavily padded, and dedicated himself to staring blankly out the window until Medea left the room, upon which he immediately bent over to examine the burn over his leg, which strangely seemed to be _healing_, but that was impossible, utter nonsense, wounds didn't heal this quickly, especially not when one's diet consisted mainly of stale leftovers…

He sighed, tugging his pant-leg back down. 

~

He knew he should have climbed out the window and slid down the gutter pipe the moment he appeared from his room and saw Dudley, armed with an oversized lighter (given to him just recently) and three of his cronies, gathered at the foot of the stairs, seemingly waiting for something. 

Which Harry soon discovered was actually a some_one. _

Thinking that he could always outrun a small whale, accompanied by three rats, he had proceeded down the stairs, taking two at a time, spirits high in anticipation of his rendezvous at the piano shop. 

Before reaching the landing, the group surrounded him, pushing him against the banister, with Dudley flicking his lighter on and off interestedly. 

"Hey freak, wanna know what I figured out today?" 

"Wasn't it Piers who had the book?" 

"Shut it, idiot." Dudley shoved the offending speaker, a boy to his left, away. "_I _learned that there were freaks like you back before…before…"  
  


Harry raised an eyebrow, waiting expectantly. 

"Before…" Dudley continued. 

"Mega-Mutilation Part Seven!" 

"Before Mega-Mutilation Part seven—thank you Piers—and do you know how they got _rid_ of these _freaks_?"

Harry swallowed. He had more than a faint inkling where this was going. 

As if suspecting Harry to bolt, the gang closed around him until Dudley had Harry's arms pinned. Harry squirmed under the pudgy hands, but to no avail, as one of boys dove for Harry's flailing legs, locking them spread-eagled against the wall. 

"Piers, you helped me out once, tell me again—how'd they pick off these buggers?"

"Burned at the stake," Rat-Boy squeaked.

"That's right. And I suppose my trusty lighter—" and here, Dudley allowed his lighter to flare up spectacularly in front of Harry's perspiring nose—"would do the job alright." 

Harry's heart slammed against his rib cage. Of course Dudley would do no such thing—he was cruel and taunting, but to go as far as this? Live burning? It was unthinkable, but Harry knew he didn't want to wait around and see what would happen. 

Arching upwards, he wrenched his leg free and kicked out randomly. Dudley, momentarily surprised, released his grasp. Harry ducked under his cousin's legs and pulled himself to his feet, running, running, to the door, and he was almost there, the doorknob was winking at him through a haze of relief

_Almost there, I'll pay him back for this…I'll get out of here and come back again and make him pay_— 

and a hand grabbed him from the back, wrapped around folds of oversized shirt, dragging him backwards

_No! Bastards, slimy bastards, if only I had my wand, get off of me_— 

until he tripped over the first stair and landed on his rump. He was roughly hauled up, and carried bodily into the backyard, empty of Vernon or Petunia, where 

Piers was waiting with a length of thick cording. Next to him was a wooden beam, nailed lopsidedly into the ground. Before he knew it, Harry found himself bound to the wood, hands behind his back, and Dudley was knelt over on one fat knee, feeding a pile of dry grass with a hearty lick of flame. 

And then the hem of Harry's pants caught a spark. 

And it burned. It burned its way up his leg, slowly sizzling and melting jeans against skin, traveling steadily over the edge of his sock, the rubber sole of his shoe drooped down, soft and acrid-smelling…

His mind whirred, groping for anything that might help, and then it came to him. A passage from a textbook, something that read along the lines of '_on the rare occasion, when they managed to catch a real witch, the burning induced merely a mild tingling sensation once a certain spell was cast', _spurred him to action, and though he had not the slightest what the incantation might be, he tried. 

An ice bath. Cubed ice. A great vat of it. He fixed these images firmly into his mind, next to an image of himself—and he'd climb into the pot of ice, water, freezing, numbingly cold water, would rush into him, slopping over his skin, wonderfully _cold_ and _tingling_, without any trace of damned _heat_ or _flames_. 

He didn't realize his eyes were squeezed shut, tears forming at the corners, until he opened them. He almost choked when he saw that he was up to the waist in flames, which licked hungrily at him and fell back unabated. It was a rather pleasant feeling; the fire seemed to dance along the surface of his skin, producing an effect like a thermal wrap or a hand against a warm heater, and his clothes seemed immune to the flames (which was quite a lucky thing indeed, Harry supposed, as it would be an awkward thing if he met Medea in virtually nothing). 

He also saw that he was alone. 

_They left me to burn, _Harry thought bitterly, thoughts of revenge clouding his thinking. A foreign heat, with a cause that had nothing to do with the roaring fire, washed over him, dull redness ringing his vision, and his blood felt as if it were boiling over from the inside. _I hate them. I hate the Dursleys. _

Suddenly, the ropes around his wrist split down the center, and he felt the beam to which he was bound shatter, cracks running down charred black wood. With a yell, Harry ripped his hands free of the remaining tendrils of rope-thread and leapt away from the crackling beam. 

Panting, Harry backed away and watched as the fire slowly ate up the wood, a cold glint radiating from his darkened eyes. 

~

"You're in luck," Medea said, re-entering the room with dressings and a green bottle. "I'll help you clean up."

She licked her thumb and unwound the gauze, soaking it in the green bottle. Gently, with the same tentative caution he remembered from years ago, she applied it to the burn on Harry's cheek, and then forced him to roll up his jeans so she could bandage the numerous wounds on his lower leg. 

"And now, let's try out that piano." 

The gray veils that had hung over Harry's eyes since the incident pulled away as she withdrew the cover on a deep brown grand, and he was once more a child in Karovitch's manor. 

**

And Destiny, at her table of cards, laughed as she discarded her old set and drew up a new hand. 

**Medea's name, I forgot whether it was from Greek mythology or Latin, actually has a deeper meaning, and offers quite a bit of foreshadowing. Also, I'd write a longer response to each review below, but my mom's just about to charge in here and rip the keyboard away from me…so that's all the time I could muster…Oh, btw, one more thank you, you awesome reviewers you! **

**Faerydust909**: Thank you! It's hard to be original in this category, because it seems every concept has already been written out…but I'll try. 

**Angelxd14:** Whew. Blush, blush. :-). That made me preettyyy happy when I read it. 

**Siri Kat**: Thanks for reviewing! Beware, third part even longer in coming since I'm sure I don't have it hidden among my (newly cleaned out!) computer files…hehe. 

**FireChild3**: Yay! I caught someone's interest! Now if only I can keep it… LOL, now there's only two chappies, hope you're less disappointed :-)

**Sasery**: One word that speaks volumes…thanks. 

**Spacecatdet:** Good. You should be curious. 'Cause I say so. Now there. Hehe, j/k. I'm such an idiot when I want to be. 

**Myra**: Thankies for reviewing, hope you enjoyed. *crosses fingers*

**Glimmer:** Strangely beautiful? That's awesome, it was the effect I was going for; kinda ethereal and…strangely beautiful. Yup. 

**Black Heart:** Soften away! Sirius is really just a big fat soft joker…anyways, good ideas, good ideas.

**HamletTheDane:** Me too, she can also be quite mean to me. I find myself liking the Moonlight too. And of course, when you think Harry Potter, you think half-insane frozen creature, how can you not? Most endearing image, I'll soon buy a HP doll, throw him into the freezer, then cuddle…:-)

**Lily**: Please don't lost your patience! And Harry the Pianist has a luvverly ring, eh?

**CatRxn:** Okay, here's a post, no more laying for you! 

**Catatonic Reaction**: Wow, thanks! *ego inflates* 

**I'm a little teapot (short and stout**): You know, just the other day I had that stupid muffin man song stuck in my head…

**Katrina**: Awww, hope you'll get it now, and that I didn't mess with your head too much.

**And to four of the first fic-reviewers that've probably noticed I didn't mention them—FF.net won't let me go onto that review page! It keeps coming up errors, darn thing. I'm so sorry, but I'm guessing you're all relieved 'cause you don't want me to say something stupid to you :-). **


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